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<title>hoping you weren't heaven sent (cause only hell knows where you've been) by mutedrop</title>
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<h1><a href="https://archiveofourown.org/works/27686588">hoping you weren't heaven sent (cause only hell knows where you've been)</a> by <a class='authorlink' href='https://archiveofourown.org/users/mutedrop/pseuds/mutedrop'>mutedrop</a></h1>

<table class="full">

<tr><td><b>Category:</b></td><td>RWBY</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Genre:</b></td><td>Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Angst and Hurt/Comfort, F/F, Mild Gore, Mystery, Past Abuse, Past Domestic Violence, Supernatural Elements (Mild), ex-police!blake, sheriff!yang</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Language:</b></td><td>English</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Status:</b></td><td>In-Progress</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Published:</b></td><td>2020-11-25</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Updated:</b></td><td>2020-11-30</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Packaged:</b></td><td>2021-05-07 01:48:38</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Rating:</b></td><td>Teen And Up Audiences</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Warnings:</b></td><td>Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Chapters:</b></td><td>2</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Words:</b></td><td>14,466</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Publisher:</b></td><td>archiveofourown.org</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Story URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/works/27686588</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Author URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/users/mutedrop/pseuds/mutedrop</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Summary:</b></td><td><div class="userstuff">
              <p>Blake finds herself at her roots when she ends up back in a small town. She's hoping to seek solace from the dark of the winter months far up North, but what she doesn't except to find is a stranger that could help her tame the monsters of her mind. </p><p>(As if Blake’s past a point where the ghosts and monsters would give up the chase.)</p>
            </div></td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Relationships:</b></td><td>Blake Belladonna/Yang Xiao Long</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Comments:</b></td><td>16</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Kudos:</b></td><td>63</td></tr>

</table>

<a name="section0001"><h2>1. now you're up against the ghosts in my head</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Author's Note:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
      <p>here's my <a href="https://open.spotify.com/playlist/2gkpL3mbTpxlr1O9q9XjAW?si=pB1g8QV-SkmXhFHkF-OIQw">playlist</a> for this fic.</p><p>i just had to write this. i hope you guys like it.<br/>maybe 5-6 chapters total coming?<br/>i'm a lazy ass writer so updates will drop whenever but i intend to finish this piece.</p>
    </blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p> </p><p>The road looms dark ahead the beat-up Jeep’s headlights. It’s barely three, but the sky’s growing dark and the emerald forest that seems to go on and on is overwhelmed with the rising mist. After a hundred miles it’s as if nothing’s changed.</p><p> </p><p>There’s trees and trees and trees and a block of wet asphalt with the occasional yellow stripes. It’s all beginning to blur into one.</p><p> </p><p>A screen lights up on the passenger’s seat, vibrating on the dark brown, itchy fabric.</p><p> </p><p>She glances at the device, sucks in a breath and picks the phone up. An elbow’s resting on the crook where the glass and plastic meet, steering with three fingers. She can’t remember when was the last time she saw a car passing by.</p><p> </p><p>”Hello,” she exhales, trying to conceal the tremble in her voice.</p><p> </p><p>She knows who it is, knows what to expect. The familiar guilt is gnawing her when she hears a voice that she knows is full of love, yet jarred with well hidden sadness.</p><p> </p><p>”<em>Blake,”</em> her mother says, sounding surprised - but at the same time, relieved. ”<em>I’ve been trying to call.”</em></p><p> </p><p>As if Blake’s past a point where the ghosts have dropped their chase. A world left behind where it doesn’t collide with this one. She scoffs to herself, hoping her mother doesn’t catch it.</p><p> </p><p>”I know.” Blake bites her tongue. ”Sorry.”</p><p> </p><p>The older woman hums. ”<em>We’ll talk more this weekend, okay?”</em></p><p> </p><p>She puts the phone on speaker, throws it on the seat next to her. Before she can answer anything, despite the lack of words to say, her mother continues.</p><p> </p><p>”<em>I brought some dry firewood to the cottage for you. The ones in the shed might not be well dried, your father hasn’t gotten around fixing the roof with a bust knee.”</em></p><p> </p><p>”Thanks, mom. I’ll see you Saturday.” As an afterthought, she adds: ”Say hi to dad from me. I miss you.”</p><p> </p><p>”<em>We’ve missed you too, honey.”</em></p><p> </p><p>She swallows thick air, and the fingers around the steering wheel clench tighter.</p><p> </p><p>”<em>Drive safe.”</em></p><p> </p><p>She ends the call, and brings her right hand to turn up the volume on the radio. She recognizes the song taking over, remembers it from her childhood. From the car rides when she used to chase the streetlights when she was just a kid who didn’t know better; didn’t know how family trips would fade, how the kid would turn up to estrange from the family she once cherished to chase a false dream.</p><p> </p><p><em>Now you know better,</em> she thinks out loud.</p><p> </p><p>-</p><p> </p><p>It takes another hour before she passes the village sign, and the radio station starts to rattle.</p><p> </p><p>”Don’t you dare,” Blake hisses. She tries another station, hears some Christmas song for half a minute before it rattles as well. A few stations later she turns the whole thing off.</p><p> </p><p>”Fine, be a dick.”</p><p> </p><p>The orange gas light pops up behind the steering wheel.</p><p> </p><p>”Not you too!”</p><p> </p><p>She sees an old sign for a gas station ten miles up, takes a breath, and sits with her simmering temper for the rest of the way.</p><p> </p><p>When the station finally comes in sight, Blake almost misses it. It’s small and rusty, all the color chipped away with time, but there’s a light on the simple sign that says <em>Open</em> in neon yellow, and Blake curves beside the gas pump.</p><p> </p><p>Stepping out of the Jeep a shiver runs cold on her neck. It’s cold, a lot colder than she expected and with trembling fingers her eyes hope for a slot for credit card payment, only to find herself sighing at the fact that she has to go inside to pay. She’s not in the mood, but at the same time her stomach grumbles and she gives in.</p><p> </p><p>She reaches for the passenger seat for a wallet and a jacket, throwing the leather jacket for false confidence.</p><p> </p><p>Walking inside Blake cringes at the bell going off above her, and takes a look around the small shop. There’s some snacks, drinks, coffee. An old tv hanging on the wall. She goes straight for the coffee, takes it in an orange takeaway cup, and picks out chips that seem to have the most kick with chili.</p><p> </p><p>Only now she gives any real thought to the cashier behind the register. He’s a middle aged man, with a tired face and a disheveled hair. The man doesn’t seem interested in her, and Blake thanks him for that. She’s not in for a conversation. She puts the items up on the counter, eyeing the hot dogs in the rolling grill.</p><p> </p><p>”Anything else?” the man asks, blunt. There’s a distant smell of vodka, Blake realizes.</p><p> </p><p>But her eyes roam to the stuffed crow sitting on a tree branch on top of a shelf, and it doesn’t even seem strange.</p><p> </p><p>”Two hot dogs. Gas,” she points her thumb behind her back, where through the windows a muddy, dark gray Jeep stands.</p><p> </p><p>”Sure. That’d be 20.20.” The man didn’t seem interested at her at first, but his eyebrows pinch lower, if only for a second.</p><p> </p><p>Blake hopes it’s not recognition as she gives the man some cash.</p><p> </p><p>”I’m sorry,” he says while putting the spices on the hot dogs, covering them with paper, ”but have you been here before?”</p><p> </p><p>She glances at the man, takes brief note of the old newspaper cuttings behind his back on the wall on a cork board. Blake distantly recognizes some of the names on the headlines. She grabs the stuff, balances the coffee on one hand while trying to keep two hot dogs and a bag of chips with a wallet on another.</p><p> </p><p>”Maybe a lifetime ago,” she mutters an answer despite the inner turmoil of possibly being recognized. What does it matter, anyway? It’s been almost a decade. Her parents still live in this town, and she used to as well. The man most likely has seen her mother, the resemblance is evident despite the differences in hair length, well, age, and if not the most prominent, in style.</p><p> </p><p>The man nods, hands her the change. She takes the coins almost reluctantly under the coffee cup.</p><p> </p><p>Back at the car, she sits behind the wheel, places the bag of chips and a wallet on the other seat, and hears a shuffle from the backseat. A black, big muzzle appears behind the front seats, brown eyes and black triangles shifting towards her hand with the hot dogs.</p><p> </p><p>”Hey boy,” she murmurs softly. ”It’s been a long day, huh? You hungry?”</p><p> </p><p>The dog swipes its tongue over it’s nose, eyes gleaming at the hot dogs.</p><p> </p><p>”Yeah, I know,” she chuckles, offering the food to the German Shepherd that takes the snack and wolfs them down. The hot dogs disappear in seconds, and she starts the Jeep. ”Tomorrow I’ll get us something proper to eat, promise. Living off of gas station food is no way to live, I hear.”</p><p> </p><p>The steers the car back on the main road. The town is about ten minute drive away anymore.</p><p> </p><p>-</p><p> </p><p>The town’s about the same as Blake remembers. Yet there’re things that pop out of the glossy image she used to have.</p><p> </p><p>The cottage is about another ten minute drive to the North of the town, but in haste decision she ends up parking the car along the road, in front a bar that seems new. Her coffee cup’s empty, and she takes it on the way out, throws it into a trashcan nearby. She eyes the bar and the painted sign on top of the roof. <em>Summer Rose</em>.</p><p> </p><p>The name doesn’t make her expect anything than a regular bar with its regular people probably sitting at the back already. It’s barely five.</p><p> </p><p>She doesn’t know what the town makes her feel. Somehow, it gives her a sense of safety, but it can just be the fact that she’s six hundred miles away from the life she used to have. It’s small, it’s ordinary, there’s nothing much to expect – except the town’s probably not expecting <em>her</em>. She’s the only abnormality, the exception to the rule, a stain on something where she doesn’t belong.</p><p> </p><p>But it’s boring, and she thinks that’s exactly what she needs. The quietness of a town that’s been living the same script for decades, something she’s not come to disrupt.</p><p> </p><p>She just really itches for a glass of whiskey before heading to the cottage.</p><p> </p><p>Blake turns back to the car, opens the rear door. ”Come on boy.” There’s a rare smile on her face for a second before she walks to the bar, a big black dog heeling after her.</p><p> </p><p>There’s another bell above the door ringing when she enters. <em>What’s with these people and these damn bells? </em>The bar is dim lit, but it happens to surprise Blake. It has dark wood and black walls with nice warm lighting – photos on the walls, newspaper cuts framed, some art that looks kinda nice even if they give a feeling they don’t really belong there either. There’s something in the art that doesn’t scream <em>the time’s stopped here. </em></p><p> </p><p>”Um,” there’s a harrumph coming behind the counter before a bit husky sound of a female voice catches Blake’s attention, ”is the dog friendly?”</p><p> </p><p>Blake looks at her dog, the big brown eyes gazing back at her, until she starts walking towards the bar stools standing in front of the bar.</p><p> </p><p>”I mean I don’t mind the dog if he behaves.”</p><p> </p><p>The bartender looks at her with raised eyebrows, eyes drifting between the pair.</p><p> </p><p>”He’s an assistant dog. He won’t bite unless someone lays their hands on me,” Blake says, looks in the lavender eyes that stare right back at her. And there’s kindness, softness that peaks through the rough edges of dark smudged eyes, a grin that doesn’t bite. It’s such an unusual feeling that it makes her halt on her step.</p><p> </p><p>”He’s welcome to stay then,” the bartender says.</p><p> </p><p>She’s a woman around Blake’s age, hands busy drying a glass with a white towel, other sleeve of her white shirt under a black vest rolled up to the elbow, other covering her right arm with a fingerless glove. Blake notices the burnt skin under the edges of the leather, but doesn’t let her eyes make home there.</p><p> </p><p>”What can I get you?”</p><p> </p><p>Blake sits herself on the stool, takes a napkin to busy her fingers with. ”Whiskey neat, thanks.”</p><p> </p><p>”Coming right up.”</p><p> </p><p>It doesn’t take long for the whiskey to appear in front of her. She takes a sip against her first thought of drowning it in one go.</p><p> </p><p>”What’s your friend’s name?” the woman asks across the bar in front of a shelf that’s filled with different kinds of booze in neat rows.</p><p> </p><p>”What?” Blake asks dumbly, too busy trying to keep her thoughts in fine line.</p><p> </p><p>The bartender nods towards Blake’s feet, where the dog lies under the stool in a relaxed manner. ”Your assistant.”</p><p> </p><p>”Oh. He’s Gambol.”</p><p> </p><p>She doesn’t know if she wants to know the reason why she could pour her heart out to the woman if she dared to push – the bartender who’s standing there staring back at her, back leaning against a dark counter, golden locks cascading off a messy bun – why she wants to know everything about a stranger she’s met two minutes ago.</p><p> </p><p>”I’m Yang,” she counters back, and has Blake rising her eyebrows at her. ”Haven’t seen you around before.” Yang says it, but she doesn’t mean it. There’s a flicker in her lilac eyes, the friendly grin framing a face with soft curves littered with faint freckles. Blake wonders how they would appear during the summer. Like little drops of gold under the sun.</p><p> </p><p>She doesn’t know how, but Yang knows her somehow.</p><p> </p><p>And it makes her question the fact if she’s a stranger at all, after all.</p><p> </p><p>”I’m just passing by,” Blake notes, wanting to say something entirely different.</p><p> </p><p>”Are you now?” Yang retorts. It’s not really a question, is it? ”Where are you staying?”</p><p> </p><p><em>What is it to you?</em> She wants to ask, but she doesn’t. ”Family cottage out of town.”</p><p> </p><p>Yang gives her a smile, and Blake drowns the rest of her drink.</p><p> </p><p>”My parents live here.” What is it with her tongue today? She can’t seem to keep the words to herself. Blake wants this to stop. Why did she have to have that drink? To stop against her thoughts of going straight to the cottage and staying there till the weekend? Alone.</p><p> </p><p>”Is that so.”</p><p> </p><p>”Blake,” she then says, curses under her breath. ”I’m Blake.” She stands up, Gambol instantly doing the same.</p><p> </p><p>Yang scrutinizes her, eyes roaming around Blake’s leather jacket, the black curls falling over her shoulders and resting on top of her chest. She finds her eyes again, smiles, lets the lavenders take note, sink in to her appearance that’s mostly black to black to black, jeans and shirt and all.</p><p> </p><p>She drops a bill on the counter, turning to walk away.</p><p> </p><p>Yang’s voice echoes in her head all the way to the cabin.</p><p> </p><p>”I’ll see you around.”</p><p> </p><p>-</p><p> </p><p>The house stands in front of the Jeep’s headlights, a bit gloomy, gray timber surrounded with patches of orange and yellow leaves from a nearby lone maple tree. It’s a one storey, has a triangle shaped roof and a porch covering the front with a door on the middle and windows on both sides.</p><p> </p><p>Blake lets the dog out of the car and stands on the wet leaves and muddy ground, taking an inhale of the cold air that’s filled with scents from the forest that surround them for miles and miles ahead.</p><p> </p><p>Gambol struts around the yard without a straight direction, takes a piss on a pine tree and comes to Blake’s feet in a curved line. His tail swings from side to side without a worry for tomorrow.</p><p> </p><p>”This is our new home,” Blake exhales, ”for a while.”</p><p> </p><p>The dog goes straight to the door, but Blake takes another look around, finds the shed fifty feet to the right, almost invisible in the night that’s landed hours ago.</p><p> </p><p>It’s November, it’s cold, and chilly, and wet. The forest’s quiet, and Blake can’t hear a single car going nowhere near. It <em>is</em> in the middle of nowhere.</p><p> </p><p>She rounds to the back of the car, and takes out a duffel bag from the boot. There’s other stuff there too – clothes, books, toiletries, some little objects – her all belongings; a whole life stuffed into the back of a car.</p><p> </p><p>The place is nothing new to her, the cottage’s been in their family for all her life, but she can barely remember the last time she visited. She might have been twelve, or fourteen.</p><p> </p><p>It seems like a lifetime ago.</p><p> </p><p>There’s a light lit inside, most likely left after her mother. The house is small, maybe five hundred square feet at most, but it’s more than enough. It’s home. There’s an open floor plan due to the small size, a kitchen opening to the living room where an ocher yellow three-seater couch stands in the middle of the room, a fireplace to its left and a tv stand in front, a bedroom behind the wall.</p><p> </p><p>Blake and the dog go straight to the bedroom, and she drops the duffel bag on the floor, tosses of her Doc Martens and falls face first onto the bed, Gambol following suit to lay at the feet of the mattress.</p><p> </p><p>It all comes back with a force of thunder, dark clouds gathering and bringing the memories that the rain won’t wash away.</p><p> </p><p>Blake’s been traveling for a week, staying on friends’ couches for months. It’s been grueling, exhausting.</p><p> </p><p>She’s so tired.</p><p> </p><p>But she gets back up, and goes for the bag, searches the end pocket and pulls out a handgun, tosses it into the drawer in the nightstand.</p><p> </p><p>Instead of going back to bed, she falls on her ass next to it and pulls her knees up to her chest. She buries her face into her hands, hears the bartender’s voice inside her head. It keeps her breathing steady for a minute. It’s easier to let the bartender fill her thoughts than let the ghosts creep back in.</p><p> </p><p>”It’s over,” she says out loud, says it over and over again.</p><p> </p><p>Gambol nudges his head to Blake’s thigh, and rests next to her. Blake lets her hand drop to the midnight fur, brushes the long back and feels the coarse hair between her fingers. It steadies her breathing, but it doesn’t wash away the salted tears until almost an hour later when she climbs back to bed, and falls asleep like a rock.</p><p> </p><p>It’s a first one without nightmares.</p><p> </p><p>-</p><p> </p><p><em>Why’s whiskey never a good idea before bed,</em> Blake groans as she struggles to open her eyes. There’s a dull thunder inside her head, a stiff muscle on her neck as she finds herself still fully clothed on top of the covers. Gambol gives a lick on her ear, and she turns to find the shepherd lying next to her. Drops of water have painted the window, the sky now almost silver, and wet snow swirls towards the ground like heavy pillows of wool. The weather seems as great as Blake’s mood, but she sits up to get off the clothes she’s had for almost two days.</p><p> </p><p>It’s all quiet and serene, which she doesn’t really like, except from the tail that keeps thumping against the bed.</p><p> </p><p>”Yeah, yeah,” she glances at the dog, and gets up to let him out of the door. She’s not worried about him running off when she sheds herself out of her clothes and goes for a shower.</p><p> </p><p>It doesn’t take long since the water’s freezing.</p><p> </p><p>Ten minutes later Blake sits down at the small kitchen island, waiting for the coffee to drip. She’s not particularly a coffee drinker, and any other time she would prefer tea, but lately it’s become an addiction to get herself more alert and ready to face the world. If she didn’t have plans to go shopping for something to eat, Blake would’ve probably stayed in bed all day – and she doesn’t want that. It’s better to stay busy, because otherwise the thoughts would come back to haunt her.</p><p> </p><p>It’s been six months and she’s sick and tired of her mind playing the same disk over and over again.</p><p> </p><p><em>I should’ve known better.</em> The coffee maker goes silent, and she walks to the counter to fill her cup. <em>But it wasn’t my fault.</em></p><p> </p><p>It reads 8:02 on the microwave’s screen. Fourteen hours of sleep, yet not a single nightmare.</p><p> </p><p>She thinks about putting the fire in the fireplace, but decides it might be better to get to town before. As she goes to grab a thermos from the counter to pour the coffee there instead, she catches sight of speckles of rust on the steel exterior, and Blake’s head wanders to freckles and lavender. There wasn’t recognition in the bartender’s eyes, but it’s as if she’d still known Blake from somewhere. She lets herself go down the memory lane, back to high school – no, there's nothing there, back to junior high. There’s glimpses of gold, flickers of fire, but it ends there, and Blake exhales in relief. It’s probably nothing, and it’s probably better that way.</p><p> </p><p>Thermos in hand, she throws a leather jacket over a black hoodie with a white printed K9 on the left of her chest. She happens to stand in front of a cracked mirror, and takes a look at the dark circles under her eyes, the black and messy, still damp bangs on her forehead. In a whim she takes a lap back to the bedroom, shuffling through her bag.</p><p> </p><p>Back in front of the mirror, she laughs at herself for putting on some mascara before heading out the door to find the dog barking at something in the tree.</p><p> </p><p>”Hey Gamble you coming with?” she asks, opens the rear door of the Jeep.</p><p> </p><p>The ground’s wet with slushy snow, and she gets in the car noting her toes are already wet.</p><p> </p><p>-</p><p> </p><p>The road to town rises onto a steep hill after a few miles on a gravel road in the middle of the forest. Slush turns into ice and about a foot of snow, and it’s a far greater sight to look at than mud and liquid snow. But the visibility isn’t great in the midst of the fog that rises after the degrees rise over freezing point.</p><p> </p><p>An old rock song plays over the radio, the damn thing now thankfully working a little better than before getting into town, and Gambol pants on the back seat, fogging up the rear windows. The dog looks far more excited and interested about the snowy view than Blake is. Yeah, she doesn’t mind the countryside with the gorgeous views and all, but it’s a lot getting used to after a big city.</p><p> </p><p>She looks at the dog from the rear view mirror, giving Gambol a smile when their eyes meet.</p><p> </p><p>”We can go for a hike later, okay?”</p><p> </p><p>Gambol answers with a whine, but out of nowhere he gives a loud warning bark and makes Blake jump on her seat, car swerving on the road.</p><p> </p><p>”God, don’t do that! There’s nothin– Shit!”</p><p> </p><p>Something dark jumps on the road. Blake’s hands clasp onto the steering wheel, and she swerves the car towards the middle of the road. The snow whirls around, it’s impossible to see, try not to hit the brakes. Braking too hard could cause more damage on a slippery road than just getting her foot off the gas.</p><p> </p><p>The dark enormous creature stands about twenty feet away before it’s gone, but Blake’s car rams to the snow wall on the left side of the road anyway, spreading a cloud of snow over them.</p><p> </p><p>Blake stares into the whiteness in front of the windshield, holding onto her breath.</p><p> </p><p>”What the <em>fuck</em>,” she whispers instead of yelling.</p><p> </p><p>Her hands tremble, knuckles turning white around the wheel before she brushes her palms over her face, trying to get her mind around what’s just happened. She presses her eyelids with cold fingertips before remembering Gambol’s bark and spins over to find the dog staring at her with wide eyes but otherwise unharmed, although now sitting on the legroom between seats.</p><p> </p><p>It must have been a moose.</p><p> </p><p>Blake scrambles to dig her phone out of her cargo pants’ pocket, stopping to think who to call for help. Because the car’s stuck when she tries to back out off the snow.</p><p> </p><p>She sees the dark, large silhouette in front of her eyes again, the flashes of white making her skin brittle.</p><p> </p><p>”Moose,” she states with a firm tone. ”It was a goddamn moose, okay. Calm down.”</p><p> </p><p>It starts raining, and the fog thickens.</p><p> </p><p>Instead of calling someone, she keeps the phone on her hand and climbs out of the car. There’s a bit of snow clogging the driver’s door, but she manages to get out, and walks over on the road. The front of the car buried in snow, pieces of plastic from a bust headlight littered on the ground from kissing the metal railing. Thank god for the snow, because otherwise it could’ve been worse. Still, she lets out another curse.</p><p> </p><p>”Fuck.”</p><p> </p><p>Blake roves around the car and lets Gambol hop out of the vehicle. The shivers won’t stop running down her arms and back. The shepherd stays close for a minute while Blake tries to gather her thoughts – tries <em>not </em>to think about the creature she <em>did not </em>just see.</p><p> </p><p>She browses through her messages mind running high on adrenaline, finds some local numbers her dad sent her for a bad day, which in this case, seem to be exactly what she’s looking for. There’s a number for a tow truck.</p><p> </p><p>Phone in her ear she leans against the right side of the Jeep that’s not covered in snow, and waits for the call to connect. Gambol struts around her feet, giving glances towards the road and the same spot where Blake saw the… <em>thing</em>. His nose wiggles, fervent, neck fur rising. She calls the dog by its name and orders him to sit beside her leg, and she takes safety from the big dog’s proximity while she talks with the tow company.</p><p> </p><p>”<em>It might take up to an hour for someone to get there,”</em> the man on the phone says. ”<em>We’ll send someone as soon as possible. You’re not hurt, are you?”</em></p><p> </p><p>”No, I’m okay,” Blake says, but knows her voice’s giving away the shaking.</p><p> </p><p>”<em>Did you hit something? There’s lot of moose going around ’</em><em>cause of</em><em> the hunting season,”</em> he continues.</p><p> </p><p>”No.” Blake swallows. She isn’t going to point out she almost hit something she thinks might be her imagination playing a bad game with her. She only hopes it would’ve been just a moose. ”I scraped the railing. I just need it out of the snow, the Jeep’s a bit stuck.”</p><p> </p><p>”<em>Someone will come and get the car out soon, I promise. What road are you on?”</em></p><p> </p><p>She tells the man a proximate location of the car. She’s not that familiar with the town anymore. It’s been too long for her to remember.</p><p> </p><p>”I’ll just walk towards the town if that’s okay,” Blake says then, the thought of staying put and waiting for someone being too much of oil to the fire for her anxiety. ”I have my dog for company.”</p><p> </p><p>”<em>If you’re sure. You’ll notice the tow truck coming, I promise.”</em></p><p> </p><p>The call ends.</p><p> </p><p>She grabs her wallet and a beanie from the car and tucks her phone back into her pants’ pocket with shaking fingers, looking ahead of the fogged up road to town as if it’s a dark hole that would suck her deep into darkness if she remained in place.</p><p> </p><p>”Fucking great.” Blake glances at the dog, pats her thigh as a loose command for the dog to follow. ”Let’s go, Gambol. At least it’s barely nine in the morning. Time for a hike.”</p><p> </p><p>It’s her and the dog on a road that reminds her of Silent Hill.</p><p>
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</p><p>-</p><p> </p><p>Blake’s covered about two miles on the side of the road when the rain finally stops, or rather turns into mist instead of heavy drops. She’s soaked from head to toe, but the chills aren’t really from the cold that seem to run through skin and bone. She hasn’t dared to look back, and she keeps her eyes strictly on the winding road, having no intention of letting her mind go any more haywire than it already has.</p><p> </p><p>It’s thanks to the dog she doesn’t start seeing dark creatures looming or shadows moving amidst the hundred year old trees that tower over them. Gambol trots beside her, and there’s no sign of fear on his manners any longer. No more stuck out fur or low growls like when they passed the spot where the thing disappeared right in front of their eyes. He keeps walking, sometimes sniffing some scents from the road bank. If the dog’s calm, so is Blake.</p><p> </p><p>But it’s hard.</p><p> </p><p>Because it’s not the first and only time.</p><p> </p><p>She always thought of it as a figment of her imagination. The bone white antlers that rose above a ten feet body. The shaggy fur pelt that’s covered in mats and dried up blood, the thing that looked more like carcass than any kind of sick moose. She saw it in the woods when she was ten, and never stepped a foot in there again. The hollow eyes still haunt her today; the dead stare that didn’t have a focus point, the look that told it wanted to crush her joints, taste the salty blood of her veins and devour her whole.</p><p> </p><p>It’s just can’t be right.</p><p> </p><p>There’s a bile up on her throat when she focuses on the wet clothes on her instead. There’s no way she’s letting a bad joke of her mind take control.</p><p> </p><p>Gambol barks, and it’s an alert bark that doesn’t scare her to death. Blake sees the same car the dog sees that’s coming forward from down the road; a black and white Ford Ranger with a yellow print on the side. There’s a bar for blue lights on the roof. It’s the sheriff’s car.</p><p> </p><p>The Ranger slows down, stopping next to Blake and the German shepherd. The exhaust from the tail pipe fumes within to the mist in the air. A tinted window rolls down on the passenger’s side, and Blake sees a glimpse of the driver in a black uniform. The erratic pulse in her veins calms down a notch, but it leaves her palms covered with cold sweat.</p><p> </p><p>”You in need for a tow?”</p><p> </p><p>And it’s a voice she recognizes, one that makes her eyebrows furrow deep – because last night the voice belonged to a bartender, not a sheriff.</p><p> </p><p>Blake stares at Yang, who stares right back at her with an amused grin. The woman has no idea what Blake’s just seen half an hour ago, and her easy way of being couldn’t clash any harder with Blake’s if Yang only knew. So Blake clenches her hands into a fist – she’s soaked, her mind’s a mess, and she’s not in a good mood. She should’ve just stayed in bed.</p><p> </p><p>”Shouldn’t you be behind a bar?” Blake scoffs.</p><p> </p><p>Yang laughs. And it’s loud, and something Blake didn’t expect. Maybe it’s for the best; it’s impossible to hang on to the haunting of her mind with someone who doesn’t know better. She’s the easy way out.</p><p> </p><p>The woman bites her lip down in order to calm her laughter. ”I can do both sides,” Yang reveals with a tamed smile, reaching to open the passenger door. ”It’s my dad’s bar so I help out there sometimes. But I’m usually just a sheriff. Deputy, I mean,” she goes.</p><p> </p><p>Yang doesn’t back up from the stare, or the he conversation. It’s as if she’s not talking with a stranger.</p><p> </p><p>”And I help out wherever I can. It’s a small town you know.” She grins, looks ahead as if looking for Blake’s Jeep. ”So when my sister called and said someone’s car’s in a pinch I said I could help out. I have a winch and the horsepower.”</p><p> </p><p>Yang seems genuine, and it’s not something Blake’s used to. Living back at the city, everyone always had an ulterior motive. Power, money, sex.</p><p> </p><p>But her fingers are going numb, and it’s not that cold out but since she’s drenched from the rain, she wouldn’t care less of how annoyingly bubbly the sheriff is. She rather agrees to a warm ride than catches the flu. Blake isn’t eager, but it seems the better option than being left out there with her thoughts alone.</p><p> </p><p>”Did it rain?” Yang inquiries then.</p><p> </p><p>Blake wants to roll her eyes but she decides against it. Yang’s been nothing but nice, she keeps telling herself. ”No, we went for a swim.”</p><p> </p><p>Gambol shakes the rain out of its fur, and pants with a happy smile next to the truck.</p><p> </p><p>”Really?” Yang laughs. ”Didn’t take you for a winter swimmer.” She sees the sourness in Blake, likes the dry humor. ”Let’s go get your car. Hop in.”</p><p> </p><p>Blake doesn’t think twice before stepping into the vehicle. The car’s already a lot warmer than what it was walking outside, but Blake’s grateful for the heat. She’s never really liked the cold. Gambol jumps up to her feet and sits down, giving a curious look to Yang who lets the dog sniff her palm. Blake notes the hand that’s not hidden under a glove this time, takes in the burnt marks for a second before meeting the woman’s sparkling eyes.</p><p> </p><p>”Was it Gamble?”</p><p> </p><p>”Gambol,” she chuckles, ”But yeah I call him Gamble sometimes.”</p><p> </p><p>”I didn’t take you for a dog person either–,” Yang says, but the sentence slows down when she’s about to call Blake by her name.</p><p> </p><p>Blake has a feeling Yang remembers it, but doesn’t dare to say it out loud.</p><p> </p><p>”Blake.”</p><p> </p><p>Yang smiles at her, puts the car on gear. ”Yeah.”</p><p> </p><p>The truck growls a bit when Yang gives it level gas on the slick ice. Blake follows the hand that turns up the heat, clicks on the seat heater. The burnt skin on Yang’s hand stops before the knuckles, but runs up under the sleeve; it gives Blake something to focus on. She wants to asks about it, but later, when her head’s not a mess – if Yang would allow her to. If they someday both sat on the customer’s side of the bar. But that would mean stepping out of the stranger zone, and Blake isn’t sure if she’s ready for that. For human interaction beyond small-talk.</p><p> </p><p>Yang’s eyes dart around the road and the banks climbing higher as the route takes them up the hill. Blake keeps her eyes on the dog sitting between her knees, but looks up when the scenery changes and the fog buries them in a familiar, heavy cocoon.</p><p> </p><p>”The car’s over this turn.”</p><p> </p><p>Yang gives her a hum, slows down on the curve.</p><p> </p><p>The road’s not exactly wide, so Yang has to work the large car a bit to turn it around to face the way they just came from.</p><p> </p><p>”You can stay in the car,” she says before getting out of the Ford. ”I’ll just be a minute.”</p><p> </p><p>Blake crosses her arms over her chest, hoping for the warmth to vaporize into her. Yang doesn’t wait for an answer when she goes out, pulls the winch from the front of the Ranger and goes to attach it to the tow bar on the Jeep’s rear.</p><p> </p><p>Yang works the cars like she’s done it a hundred times. She doesn’t slip on the ice either. Blake watches the operation from the corner of her eye, while Gambol scopes out the situation with a more direct interest. Yang’s whole uniform is dark gray, if not exactly black. The jacket’s open and loose, and underneath is a heavy rib sweater. There’s a belt on her hips, and she notes the gun, handcuffs’ holder, pocket for a flashlight.</p><p> </p><p>The sight gives a sense of nostalgia, and she lowers her gaze to scratch the chest of her dog, the tags making a sound that reminds her of the bell above the bar’s door.</p><p> </p><p>But her gaze creeps back outside, and while Yang goes to ensure the Jeep’s on neutral, Blake notices other things she didn’t give much thought back at Summer Rose. Yang’s tall, almost five point eight feet with tactical boots on. She has broad shoulders and a surprisingly muscular build she really didn’t notice yesterday. At the bar Yang had a different energy, as if she was more in working mode than she is now – back there she didn’t want to take home in people’s minds. She’s much more in tune with herself working the cars than a bottle of whiskey and a towel. There’s confidence – but not the type Blake usually loathes.</p><p> </p><p>It’s not that she wants to stare, but it’s the better option of the two of falling back to think about creatures of more sinister nature.</p><p> </p><p>”All set!” Yang manages to catch Blake off guard hopping back into the car. ”But you have a flat tire.”</p><p> </p><p>Blake sighs loudly. ”Of course I do.”</p><p> </p><p>”We’ll just pull it to the repair shop in town. It can be patched up in fifteen,” Yang replies with reassurance in her smile. She shifts the gear, and starts backing up slowly, pulling the Jeep out of the snow in two minutes.</p><p> </p><p>But seeing the Jeep move, Blake’s hands tremble as if waiting for the thing to jump back on the road again. If Yang wasn’t there, she would sink into the eerie silence. Lose herself in there.</p><p> </p><p>When Yang’s about to go back out to get the winch off, she halts on the seat, and turns to look at Blake. Her expression doesn’t give anything up, and it’s more neutral than Blake would like.</p><p> </p><p>”Can I ask what made you crash?”</p><p> </p><p>Blake grits her teeth, sucks her lower lip into her mouth. ”I think–I think it was a moose. It went over the road about twenty feet in front of us.” She doesn’t meet Yang’s gaze. She tries to search for footprints on the sloping hill, but the rain’s washed everything into mush.</p><p> </p><p>”Okay.”</p><p> </p><p>If Yang doesn’t believe her, she doesn’t show it.</p><p> </p><p>”I only hit the railing–,” Blake continues, lowers her jaw to stare at her fingernails, ”I didn’t hit – I didn’t hit… <em>it</em>. The moose – whatever it was. I don’t <em>know</em> what it was.” Her voice trails low at the end, and she wonders if Yang even hears it, or sees the dead glass on her expression. The horror she won’t let take over.</p><p> </p><p>”Sure.”</p><p> </p><p>-</p><p> </p><p>Fifteen minutes later they stop in front of the repair shop, and Yang goes to talk to a bit younger woman in burgundy work coveralls. There’s something similar in their essence, but when the dark haired, lively woman walks to Blake, she remembers the sheriff talking about a sister.</p><p> </p><p>”Hey there! I’m Ruby, and I’m gonna patch your tire up,” she quips, and holds her hand up to shake Blake’s after she wipes her hands onto a rag and tucks it back into a pocket on her thigh.</p><p> </p><p>Blake returns the gesture, nodding.</p><p> </p><p>”Thanks, I’m Blake. Blake Belladonna.”</p><p> </p><p>There’s recognition in Ruby’s silver eyes, but she doesn’t comment on it. It isn’t the first time, since people most likely know her parents, the Belladonnas. Her dad used to be the sheriff before retiring five years ago. Everyone knows him – not so much the daughter who left the town long before that.</p><p> </p><p>”So, I’m gonna get to your car in about fifteen minutes after I do an oil change for another client first. It would be ready in half an hour. Does that work for you?” Ruby’s friendly smile doesn’t falter, although she glances towards the sheriff now leaning against the Ranger’s side.</p><p> </p><p>Blake catches sight of Gambol sitting on the passenger’s seat, looking at them curiously. She bites down on her inner cheek, hoping the dog wouldn’t mess up the seats with dirt and mud.</p><p> </p><p>”Uh, I was going to get some groceries before–well, all this. So I’ll just go to the store while you’re at it.”</p><p> </p><p>Ruby gives her a wide grin and a horizontal thumb up. ”Great! Your car will be up and running around 10:15.” Without waiting for Blake’s answer, Ruby’s already on her way back inside, giving Yang a short wave before disappearing into the shop through a tall sliding door.</p><p> </p><p>It almost gives Blake a heart attack, when Yang’s suddenly right beside her.</p><p> </p><p>”Don’t worry about the bill.”</p><p> </p><p>Blake’s burrows her eyebrows, grunting questioningly. ”And why’s that?”</p><p> </p><p>”You’re the sheriff’s daughter, right?” There’s a faint, nostalgic smile. ”Your dad trained me. He’s a good man. I owe him a free tire patching for that.”</p><p> </p><p>”Okay?” Blake holds her stare a tad longer than she’s supposed to. ”Thank you.”</p><p> </p><p>A silence falls between them for a minute, but it’s not… It’s not awkward. There’s just a moment for distant memories, seconds for lives to collide.</p><p> </p><p>”You’re a cop too, yeah?”</p><p> </p><p>Blake’s a bit taken aback by the statement, but as she gives it more thought, it’s probably just the fact that her father’s always been a talker.</p><p> </p><p>”Dad told you?”</p><p> </p><p>Yang chuckles, scratches a spot under the hairline on her neck. ”Well, he did. But I only connected the dots now.” She tucks her hands into her jacket’s pockets and joggles on her feet. ”I actually saw the police badge tag on your dog’s collar when we were in the car. He’s a police dog?”</p><p> </p><p>The question allows bitterness to grow in Blake’s mouth.</p><p> </p><p>”Used to,” she answers, brings herself down the memory lane. The way from the city with its ghosts that led her there, to a town with less than six thousand residents. She doesn’t want to dig deeper, but Yang’s just there, sincere and light, interested and kind. She’s from a different world, but Blake wants to give the deputy the benefit of the doubt. Yang’s stronger than she lets on, even if Blake doesn’t know a single thing about her yet. But there’s want, and need – to start over. To let go of the yesterday and start all over again.</p><p> </p><p>She could use a friend, but she’s afraid she’s burnt too many bridges on her way up there.</p><p> </p><p>”I was a canine handler in the force and Gambol was my partner,” Blake catches herself saying. She swallows, takes a breath that shakes. There’s a time for more, for explanations. But it’s not now.</p><p> </p><p>Yang stays steady, like a tree that won’t budge under a storm. There’s understanding even without sharing the details.</p><p> </p><p>The pain, the fear.</p><p> </p><p>Her own stupidity.</p><p> </p><p>”We retired,” Blake murmurs, ends the conversation. She might tell Yang, maybe after a few drinks. Maybe after.</p><p> </p><p>Yang gives her things and words she didn’t know she needed, if merely by a look. ”And now you’re here.” The breeze catches on to the long bangs of her hair. She turns on her feet, shifts more towards Blake, but she doesn’t touch. There’s a line that’s not ready to be crossed.</p><p> </p><p>Fat flakes of snow linger down from the clouds, grasping onto the ground.</p><p> </p><p>”Now we’re here.”</p><p> </p><p>Yang hums, walks backwards towards her car for a bit before turning around, and goes to let Gambol out, who jogs in front of Yang back to Blake. The dog sits down to Yang’s feet, waits for the woman to pet him as he leans against her thighs. Yang obliges, and it doesn’t take long before she’s crouched down to Gambol’s level, petting him as if they’ve known for all their lives.</p><p> </p><p>”Are you here to stay?”</p><p> </p><p>Blake’s been so engrossed to watch the dog enjoy the attention, how the snowflakes contrast against the dark fur and how they land on golden hair, that it takes a second or two for the words to register. She doesn’t know the answer, anyway.</p><p> </p><p>”I don’t know.” Blake shrugs. ”Maybe.”</p><p> </p><p>Gambol has started to lick Yang’s ears, and the woman chuckles, trying to hold her laugh. But the lilac eyes rise to meet Blake’s, more careful this time. And somehow it sinks into Blake, that Yang’s lonely too.</p><p> </p><p>”I’m–I think i have to get back to work, but,” Yang mutters, standing back up to her feet without taking her hand off the dog’s head. ”I’ll probably be at the bar tomorrow. You know, off duty. If you want to… Maybe a have drink? And I–I mean, if you want someone to talk to. If you want. If you’re free. I’ll be there anyway, so… If you have nothing better to do. Maybe.”</p><p> </p><p>It’s the first time she gives Yang any hint of a real smile.</p><p> </p><p>”Maybe,” she replies. If she grins just a bit, she’s not sure about it. ”Thanks for the tow. Come on, Gamble. Let’s go.” She turns, waits for the dog to follow, echoes Yang’s words from before but doesn’t say them out loud.</p><p>
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<a name="section0002"><h2>2. it was worth all it cost, 'cause I found myself in all the blood I lost</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>Blake decides on another route when it’s time to head back to the cottage – back <em>home</em>. It almost doubles the time spent on road, but she’s not ready to go back yet. It’s enough to see glimpses of the creature at the back of her mind when she closes her eyes, or when she lets her gaze linger on shadows behind the treeline a little too long.</p><p> </p><p>And to get her mind off it, Blake allows her mind to wander off to more trivial things. Like that fact that Ruby hadn’t only patched her tire, but changed the broken headlight as well. How she didn’t manage to utter a proper thanks to her, and that she should ask Yang to thank Ruby for her when they see each other again.</p><p> </p><p><em>If</em> they meet again.</p><p> </p><p>Blake didn’t exactly come here to socialize – or at least that’s what she keeps telling herself. The point is to get her mind off of things. To forget the rest, to find some new perspective through isolation; spending time with Gambol, hiking, sleeping, reading. She doesn’t need other people to do that.</p><p> </p><p>She doesn’t want other people’s messes mixing with hers when she’s barely gotten rid off her own.</p><p><br/>
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</p><p>-</p><p><br/>
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</p><p>The rest of the day Blake tries to keep herself busy.</p><p> </p><p>She brings the groceries inside, struggles to put fire on the fireplace, feeds the dog. She changes her damp clothes for dry ones and empties the rest from her bag into the closet. After making herself a cup of shrimp noodles and chocolate chili tea, she lands on the yellow sofa in the living room, not knowing what to do.</p><p> </p><p>She could fix the roof of the shed, but she’s just gotten comfortable in some sweats and her hair has just dried. The outside doesn’t seem so inviting anymore, and not any less because she finds herself evading the woods. And it’s nothing but trees and a bit of snow outside. The closest neighbor is at least a mile away, and after this morning, it’s the first time Blake’s afraid to go out.</p><p> </p><p>The cottage’s small, but it’s big enough for ghosts. There’s too much room to breathe, think, get buried under the overthinking.</p><p> </p><p>As if there isn’t enough bad memories to fill the gaps.</p><p> </p><p>Blake stares into the fire behind a glass door, chews the dry skin around her fingernails when Gambol jumps to the couch next to her and lays his large front paws and head on top of her lap. She looks at the shepherd, and lets her hand fall on to the dog’s neck, chuckling drily.</p><p> </p><p>”You used to be such a badass police dog,” she murmurs, scratching the back of Gambol’s ears. ”And now what have you become? An emotional support dog.” Blake exhales, tries to keep some tears behind locked eyelids. Without the dog, she wouldn’t even be this far. She might not even be alive, she thinks, as her fingers brush over the midnight fur to reveal a scar on the dog’s shoulder.</p><p> </p><p>It’s impossible to try not to think of her own scars, the night she got them. The blood tainting a shirt, falling down on the floor in spots. The white teeth burying themselves into flesh that wasn’t her own. Gunshots, broken whines, the ambulance. The police and the remorse and pity in their eyes. The fact it had to take her that long to see.</p><p> </p><p>That at the end it was only the dog in a house of three that loved her without requirement.</p><p><br/>
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</p><p>-</p><p><br/>
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</p><p>That night the nightmares return, but they don’t take the shape of a man.</p><p><br/>
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</p><p>-</p><p><br/>
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</p><p>To not let the fear take over, Blake takes the dog outside the next day. It’s the first time in days that the sun manages to crack through the clouds that have been dictating the weather for weeks, and she grasps onto the light like a lifeline as she walks after the dog’s footsteps.</p><p> </p><p>There’s about two inches of snow that crunches under her boots as she follows the free running dog. Nothing to be afraid of, yet the cold sweat pushes through to her palms. But the shadows are shallow, and the trees don’t give shelter to imaginary threats as long as the sun stays up.</p><p> </p><p>They reach a small pond half a mile away from the cottage, and Blake allows herself to stand idle for a moment. The pond has barely frozen, and the sight would be quite beautiful to look at when she’s not drowning in her thoughts.</p><p> </p><p>Blake jolts despite it all when her phone vibrates in her long winter jacket’s pocket. There’s a text from her dad, and she lets out a breath she didn’t know she had been holding onto. The text gives her a sense of normalcy.</p><p> </p><p>
  <em>What do you want for dinner tomorrow?</em>
</p><p>
  <em>- Dad</em>
</p><p> </p><p>The corner of her lips quirk up, and she texts back.</p><p> </p><p>
  <em>Surprise me.</em>
</p><p> </p><p>It takes her a minute to catch up, but the fact how long it has been since the last time she saw her parents hits her like a ton of bricks, and it’s her own fault. Well, mostly. She could’ve tried more. She could’ve just called, but it was easier to put it off to the future.</p><p> </p><p>Cold shivers ran through her nape. How easy it had been to get swallowed into lies and manipulation.</p><p> </p><p>She would never let that happen again to her.</p><p> </p><p>Blake tucks the phone back into the pocket, and brushes fingers along her cheek, feeling the warm tears on skin. She would do better, and make up for the lost time.</p><p> </p><p>She pulls the lapels of her jacket higher up, searching for the black dog with puffy eyes. The pond’s about a quarter of a football field, followed with a patch of hoarfrosted field before the forest begins again. It’s getting darker every minute after afternoon.</p><p> </p><p>”Gambol!” she yells, gives out a whistle. ”Where the hell did you go?”</p><p> </p><p>There’s no dog in sight, and although Blake trusts the dog to not do anything stupid, she knows it’s still just a dog. She keeps looking and turning around, noting the pawprints that go along the edge of the water. Then Gambol appears behind her, holding onto something.</p><p> </p><p>”What is that?” she queries, but the dog saunters around her like a whirligig, obviously proud of his find.</p><p> </p><p>”Come on, leave it,” Blake commands, and the dog drops his find.</p><p> </p><p>It’s a bone. One that’s still red from flesh being ripped off it only hours before.</p><p> </p><p>Gambol gives her a look of disappointment.</p><p> </p><p>”What the...”</p><p> </p><p>Blake’s not sure if she’s ready for more surprises. She brings her hands through her hair and along her scalp, staring at the white bone and remains of tendon like it’s another threat to her sanity. But the curiosity that lingers on the edge of obsession wins over; she remembers her days as a police, looking for missing persons and tracking the ground with her dog when there’s been murder, searching the crime scenes for more evidence, body parts, criminals.</p><p> </p><p>”Find it,” she orders the dog now, calm and more collected than she expected, and the dog’s posture changes in seconds. His muscles go rigid and ready, back into work mode. Gambol gives Blake a haste look before he surges off to the left of the pond, towards the treeline where spruce stand tall and heavy.</p><p> </p><p>Blake follows, even if her heart beats hundred miles per hour and the sweat on her skin turns colder. But for the first time in a while she doesn’t feel fear at the forefront.</p><p> </p><p>The snow lessens the deeper they go into the woods, and the terrain changes from smooth to one that’s filled with stones and potholes she almost gets her foot caught up into. The evergreen spruce fade and give space to brushwood, and the further the ground rises along the hill, the more arduous moving there gets.</p><p> </p><p>The sun’s already started to set when she hears the dog barking, knows Gambol’s announcing her his find.</p><p> </p><p>Blake’s already panting when she spots the dog disappearing behind a tall, single oak tree. There’s a surge of adrenaline, the satisfaction of finding something, but soon the distinct smell of death creeps in when she slows down on the frosted earth.</p><p> </p><p>She’s dripping sweat when she halts and sees it. The lifeless body of a moose, a large stag with antlers that used to be magnificent whilst alive. Gambol keeps barking, and it’s keen and methodical, just as he’s trained to do. Blake’s only seen the front of the animal, but she hesitates stepping closer and taking a better look. It’s macabre and nauseous, and she avoids breathing through her nose. But getting closer, the tainted air is just too much, and Blake hides her nose behind her palm.</p><p> </p><p>A river of blood stains the white ground, and Blake realizes it’s not a moose that’s been shot simply by local hunters. The metallic stench brings her back in time, and her shoulders tense up, hesitating. Her feet grow heavy, and she doesn’t want to move. She doesn’t want to remember things she’s tried to forget and get over, but it’s impossible. The smell’s too strong. It reminds her of all the dead bodies she’s seen through her career, all the lost souls she couldn’t save or bring back to life.</p><p> </p><p>Blake almost wants to turn back, and forget she ever saw anything. Would giving up be the better option? Could she just leave it be, and turn her back to it without seeing this through?</p><p> </p><p>Is she taking a bigger bite she can chew?</p><p> </p><p>She’s not sure she wants to see the truth, but Gambol gives her an expectant look as he hangs his head low, waiting for her to make a move, give him a command or praise.</p><p> </p><p>Maybe it turns out to be nothing but an animal lost to a sickness, or a hunter’s catch that simply got away?</p><p> </p><p>But she can’t just leave it. She has to see this through.</p><p> </p><p>”Good job,” Blake whispers, voice lost somewhere when the smell appeared. Gambol takes a step back, watching back and forth between his handler and the dead animal, and Blake finally finds the courage to step closer.</p><p> </p><p>The sight almost makes her want to gag, but she grits her teeth, reminds herself she’s seen worse than mutilated animal carcass. She’s seen bodies without limbs, blackened with bruises, left out like trash.</p><p> </p><p>But’s it’s still a lot take in.</p><p> </p><p>The moose lies on its stomach, back ripped open, the loin full of marks that could be made by another animal, but she can’t be sure. The scars are large, like erratic claw marks, but there’s so many of them it doesn’t feel right. To make the matters even more abominable, the animal’s been skinned, and the only fur left is only at the head, neck and chest. A bit of the moose has been eaten by smaller animals, maybe even by wolves, but there’s a distinct smell that is so foul that it makes it evident even predators haven’t been able to eat the meat entirely off.</p><p> </p><p>”This is just…” Blake exhales warily, mostly to herself, trying to wrap her head around it. She buries her face into her hands, not sure if she’s seeing more than there actually is, or if it’s really as brute as she sees it. She backs off of the carcass by instinct, stopping to look at the face of the long gone animal. There’s a bit of dried blood on its nostrils, and it’s eyes stare back at her like stone coals, yet surprisingly human-like.</p><p> </p><p>She remembers a case where a man had been skinned and left hanging from a factory ceiling by chains. She had merely been there to search the grounds with Gambol, to find a possible trace, but it had left a lasting memory. One she doesn’t particularly want to remember. There had been another body a month later. The offender had never been found, nor was there ever anyone arrested.</p><p> </p><p>A year later she’d been on her way to become a detective, but then things happened, and she left the force, thinking she would never continue on that path again.</p><p> </p><p>But Blake’s head is already asking questions, and it’s a disk it’s easy to lose herself into; in to work, to meaning.</p><p> </p><p>She squats down to one knee, and looks at the moose, lets her mind go around the facts, the possibilities.</p><p> </p><p>Would a hunter do something like this? Some other animal? Why would wolves, for example, leave behind so much meat that would feed a small pack for few days? Is it something a sick person would do? If it isn’t murder, could it be called slaughter? It’s mutilation, at least, and it’s not normal.</p><p> </p><p>Why does it smell so foul, when it doesn’t look that rotten? The temperatures haven’t risen that high.</p><p> </p><p>Or is she imagining things? Can she even trust herself anymore, when just yesterday she saw something even more bizarre than this? When the thing she thought she saw resembled a creature known from urban legends and folklore? Was it her mind playing with her, or was it real?</p><p> </p><p>Should she call her father? Should she tell Yang…?</p><p> </p><p>With trembling hands, she pulls out her phone. It’s starting to get hard to breathe. She takes photos for evidence, from every angle, about every intriguing detail. And when she’s about to take a photo of its nostrils and the blood, she notices the still green plants littered under the moose’s jaw. The leafs are round at the base and sharp at the end, and there’s some star-like little buds where could’ve been flowers at one point. She hasn’t seen the kind so far up north before. And it’s not something that would walk there on their own.</p><p> </p><p>It’s been left there. And that’s something only a man can do. But with what purpose and reason, she has no idea. A threat? A message? To who, and why?</p><p> </p><p>She stands back up, distancing herself from the shivers around her body, the fear in her mind that mixes with calculated cool-headedness, not knowing which side to pick. It’s addicting, the need to know, and she knows she can burn herself if is she takes this too far. The old wounds and memories are still fresher than she admits.</p><p> </p><p>”Gambol,” she says, tucks the phone back. ”Let’s get out of here.”</p><p> </p><p>Blake knows not backing out of a challenge could be her downfall.</p><p> </p><p>But it might already be too late.</p><p><br/>
<br/>
</p><p>-</p><p><br/>
<br/>
</p><p>When Blake returns back to the cottage, the darkness has already fallen. She curses herself for not taking a proper flashlight knowing there’s no street lights or any kind of other light source in the countryside. The flashlight of her phone’s laughable at best, and the battery dies the moment she saws a light coming from inside the house.</p><p> </p><p>The first thing she does when they get back in the house is put her phone to charge. Blake rids herself off her long jacket and puts the kettle on the stove, but she reaches for her phone immediately after that, trying to turn it on.</p><p> </p><p>She has to see the pictures, to take a better look at them in the safety of the cottage.</p><p> </p><p>But the phone shows her a red icon – as if giving her the finger – as the battery’s still at only 3 percent, and the ancient device doesn’t want turn on until at least at fifteen percent. Sighing, she drops the phone on the kitchen island, and buries her hands into raven hair.</p><p> </p><p>There’s new monsters that crave for her attention now, isn’t there?</p><p> </p><p>Her leg shakes against the wooden floor. What’s she supposed to do now?</p><p> </p><p>The kettle starts whistling, and she rushes to turn the stove off, shifts the kettle onto another. Her gaze lands on the clock on the microwave, it’s already 6:58PM–</p><p> </p><p>Shit.</p><p> </p><p>They were out for hours, and she totally forgot Yang had asked her for a drink that night. Or was she just being nice? It’s hard to think so, even if her head tries to give her reasons why she would.</p><p> </p><p>But Yang isn’t like that.</p><p> </p><p>It’s hard to admit, but the blonde deputy is the first person in a long time she actually wants to socialize with. There’s just something different about her after being used to people from the city. And then there’s the fact, that she could ask Yang’s opinion about the carcass. But she also doesn’t want to seem like she’s using her. But the thought of letting someone in, as a friend, or just an acquaintance, isn’t something Blake might be ready for.</p><p> </p><p>And she’s afraid.</p><p> </p><p>Afraid she’s still just the gullible, naivë Blake who lets people wrap themselves around her fingers.</p><p> </p><p>”It’s just a drink,” she thinks out loud, ”Just one drink.”</p><p> </p><p>If Yang’s even there at all. Maybe something’s come up, and she doesn’t even show.</p><p> </p><p>But what if she’s already late?</p><p> </p><p>It’s already past seven, and it would take her at least half an hour to get there.</p><p> </p><p>But is there anything to lose?</p><p> </p><p>If Yang’s not there, she’d just have the drink and go back home. If Yang is there, she could still have that drink.</p><p> </p><p>So she forgets the tea she planned, gives the dog its dinner and heads to the bathroom, mind still whirling around the dead moose in the woods.</p><p> </p><p>What the hell is it about?</p><p> </p><p>A bad, practical joke? But why would it be in the middle of the forest, far away from people to see, if it was meant as a joke?</p><p> </p><p>She thinks about murders, serial killers. Most of them start with animals, and once they have a taste, they can’t seem to stop. Could it really be something like that? In such a small town? And has it happened before?</p><p> </p><p>Is it just the beginning?</p><p> </p><p>Blake looks at herself through the mirror. There’s dark bags under her amber eyes, her hair’s a mess and could use a good brush. She settles for putting the long locks into a loose bun, and brushes the bangs that land right at the eyelashes. The dog fur’s at least invisible on the dark t-shirt, but the drool from throwing a ball to the dog and the muddy paw prints on her stomach give enough reason to change it into something that’s at least clean.</p><p> </p><p>Drily, she laughs at herself.</p><p> </p><p>She used to have a morning routine. Shower, hair, make-up, clean clothes or an uniform. Blake also used to have a home instead of couch-surfing or merely sleeping in the car. She used to have a life she thought was something, but now it’s just a distant, cold memory.</p><p> </p><p>Maybe she could try getting a grip again.</p><p><br/>
<br/>
</p><p>-</p><p><br/>
<br/>
</p><p>The town’s the same, even if it’s Friday.</p><p> </p><p>Blake’s used to a bustling city, especially towards the weekend, but she rather likes the solence. She sees a few cars going through the main street when she takes a turn, and parks at the same spot she did the day of her arrival.</p><p> </p><p>She gives herself a final look through the rear view mirror, if only seeing her face and neck area. It’s already 8:10PM, and she almost gave up the thought of coming. Call it cowardice, or laziness, but it’s been a while since she’s met people without a proper reason, just to… Catch up? Talk to, spend time with, maybe.</p><p> </p><p>It’s hard to look at herself. She’s so used to living like a homeless drifter that she’s almost gotten used to it. But staring at herself now, her self esteem’s having a meltdown.</p><p> </p><p>She’s not bad looking, but it’s more what she has inside, feels, and what weighs her down.</p><p> </p><p>At least she’s tried. She has a clean shirt, black and white flannel under the well-worn leather jacket, oh, and dark gray jeans. The make up’s simple, but it does bring her eyes out. Maybe she could do it more often, just to feel better in her own skin – not to impress anyone else.</p><p> </p><p>Blake steps out of the Jeep, and makes sure her phone’s in her pocket as she walks inside. There’s actual people there, and the damn bell dingles. People look at her way, questions filling their mind. She’s a new old face, long forgotten. The people are mostly around her age, late twenties to early thirties, except from the younger lot of four back in a corner boot, and the elder regulars at the counter. Rock music plays, loud enough to bury people’s talking and quiet enough to not turn into a dance club.</p><p> </p><p>She marches to the bar as she doesn’t catch sight of Yang. There’s a man on his thirties behind the counter this time. He gives her a smile, turns to her after serving two beers for an older couple.</p><p> </p><p>”What’s your poison?”</p><p> </p><p>Blake bites her lip, but she doesn’t manage to utter a word when a voice she recognizes chuckles next to her: ”Whiskey neat, right?”</p><p> </p><p>Yang stands there, lets her shoulder brush off of Blake’s. She has the familiar grin on her face, but its laced with sheepishness, as if afraid of over-stepping.</p><p> </p><p>”Yeah,” Blake manages to grunt. She’s a bit busy staring at Yang who’s happened to surprise her.</p><p> </p><p>She looks like a different person without the loose uniform of a sheriff.</p><p> </p><p>”I’ll have a Strawberry Sunrise.”</p><p> </p><p>Blake snickers at the picked drink.</p><p> </p><p>”Really?” she asks with an eyebrow raise, lets her gaze linger over Yang.</p><p> </p><p>The woman has a rusty orange, over-sized t-shirt under a denim jacket with white faux fur lapels. But what she’s most surprised about is the hair that almost falls to the center of her back, and it’s a little unruly with natural curls at the tips. It’s shimmers like a river that’s being kissed by the sun.</p><p> </p><p>It would be a lie to state that Yang isn’t one of the most charming people she’s ever seen. She makes her think of late summers and sunflowers under a midnight sun.</p><p> </p><p>Yang shrugs at her, and Blake turns her gaze away to the glass she’s just been given.</p><p> </p><p>”Am I late?” Blake asks suddenly, biting into her lip. She doesn’t want to seem like a jerk.</p><p> </p><p>”Did I give you deadline?” Yang quips back, and her smile’s soft, a little playful. ”I don’t think I did. I was here with Ruby for about an hour, before she left for her night classes.”</p><p> </p><p>”I forgot to thank her about fixing the car.”</p><p> </p><p>”It’s fine. She cares more about the work than getting a thank you,” Yang chuckles, truthful, and it’s evident she and Ruby are close. ”Should we go sit?”</p><p> </p><p>”Sure,” Blake says and starts looking for a table. She spots a boot a bit further away from the other customers, and leads them there. She takes the seat that faces the door. It’s an old habit.</p><p> </p><p>Yang sits across her, and watches Blake with a lopsided, not very well hidden smile. She’s not uneasy even when Blake finds it hard to relax and forget everything else. Yang gives her time to adjust, to shift around the seat and sip the whiskey. She doesn’t push for unnecessary small-talk, but seems to enjoy observing the situation in silence.</p><p> </p><p>”I’m not very good with people,” Blake blurts out, biting the inside of her lower lip.</p><p> </p><p>Yang tilts her head, locks eyes with Blake with an expression that reminds her of Gambol, and she has no idea what it even means.</p><p> </p><p>”I don’t mind,” Yang replies – with a tone that turns liquid on Blake’s spine.</p><p> </p><p>Blake clears her throat, finds the newspaper clippings from the wall again. There’s an article with a photo of a women’s baseball team relishing on their victory from about ten years ago. They’re sweaty and their clothes are wet from rain and mud, but it doesn’t seem to affect their parade.</p><p> </p><p>”Is that you?” Blake asks, eyebrows furrowing curiously, as she points up to one of the girls holding onto a trophy that’s almost as big as her upper body.</p><p> </p><p>Yang glances the photo from the corner of her eye, and if Blake’s not mistaken she could swear Yang’s cheeks redden a bit.</p><p> </p><p>”I was hoping you wouldn’t notice,” she mutters, turns her gaze down to intensively stare her sunrise orange drink.</p><p> </p><p>Blake chuckles at her. ”You’re lying.”</p><p> </p><p>Yang’s lavender gaze grows a bit darker in the dim light, and she gasps dramatically.</p><p> </p><p>”It’s an ancient photo, I look like an idiot!”</p><p> </p><p>”Now you’re deflecting,” Blake states.</p><p> </p><p>”Innocent until proven otherwise.”</p><p> </p><p>”You better get a good lawyer then.”</p><p> </p><p>Smirking, Blake forgets the fact that they’re basically strangers. She takes a sip of her whiskey, listening Yang chuckle into her drink. Blake rather likes the easy way they navigate around each other, and it’s frightening, but nice for a change. She’s been holding her guard for so long and tight that she realizes she’s actually been suffocating herself.</p><p> </p><p>She also figures why she doesn’t remember Yang from high school – it seems that Yang went to the one at the other side of town, back then when there still were two high schools in the area. Now it’s probably hanging onto one.</p><p> </p><p>It’s as if Yang can read her mind, when she says: ”I remember you from junior high.”</p><p> </p><p>Blake’s not sure what to make of it. How could Yang remember her? Why would she?</p><p> </p><p>”We had the same P.E class,” Yang continues, bites down on her lip with a grin. ”You never participated. You always sat by the bleachers, reading a book or something.”</p><p> </p><p>She drifts her gaze between Yang and the younger version of her on the photo, trying to remember, but it’s hazy, and crazy.</p><p> </p><p>”I had asthma,” Blake grunts.</p><p> </p><p>”Sure,” Yang laughs, drowns the rest of her drink.</p><p> </p><p>She hated PE. She hated the way the teacher favored the athletic, one of them being Yang, now that it slowly comes back to her. Blake barely remembers her, but she knows for a fact that she was most likely jealous. Because Yang was bubbly even then, liked by everyone – she was popular, athletic. Pretty. How could’ve she forgotten someone like that?</p><p> </p><p>And it dawns her, that Yang never did.</p><p> </p><p>”You <em>knew</em> who I was?” Blake squints at Yang, tilts her own head to the side.</p><p> </p><p>”Uh,” she rumbles, has something on the top of her tongue that she doesn’t dare to say out loud. ”I’m good with names.”</p><p> </p><p>”You’re a bad liar,” Blake laughs now, surprising herself, and Yang as well. ”Like, the worst.”</p><p> </p><p>Yang tries to hide behind her glass, but she gives up when she notices it’s already empty. Blake’s glass’ empty as well. She decides she could have another drink. Since she’s already there.</p><p> </p><p>Yang’s like a breath of fresh air after being used to dust and decay.</p><p> </p><p>The silence lingers, but it feels like there’s not much to say that would matter more than just being. Taking in each other’s energy pushing back and forth, curious and breath-taking.</p><p> </p><p>”I’m gonna go get another,” Blake states, standing up next to the table. She looks down at Yang’s face, catches her eye, the stag in the woods buried in her mind for now. She wants to show the pictures to Yang, to hear her opinion, to get some sense of it, but she wants to linger on the conversation for a few more minutes.</p><p> </p><p>If she could, she’d much rather drown in lavender and gold than the colors of death.</p><p> </p><p>”Do you want me to bring you something?” she asks, her voice coming off a bit more hushed and breathy than she anticipated.</p><p> </p><p>Yang gazes up to her. ”Yeah. I’d like that.”</p><p> </p><p>There’s no queue before her, so she gets back in an instant, carrying back the same drink for Yang she had before, and a gin and tonic for herself. She hasn’t even given any thought if it’s a good idea to keep drinking, because she’s supposed to be driving. But it doesn’t seem important in that moment.</p><p> </p><p>”There you go,” Blake mutters, offering the Sunrise in front of Yang, who flashes her half a smile and half a grin, reaching for the glass with her burnt hand that she doesn’t seem to feel like hiding. Maybe she senses Blake doesn’t care. She has her own scars as well, even if hidden underneath a layer of clothes. Though, she catches herself wondering how Yang’s skin would feel against her fingertips. But she brushes the thoughts off, and remembers the photos creeping in her pocket, on her phone.</p><p> </p><p>”Thank you.” Yang gives her a look, lets her eyes roam on the pinch of Blake’s eyebrows, the weight she carries in the leather jacket’s pocket. ”Where’s your head at?”</p><p> </p><p>Blake sighs. She would like to enjoy Yang’s presence, more than she’s willing to condone. She doesn’t want to unload herself onto her. Yang wouldn’t deserve the burdens, but Blake also knows how a cop’s mind works. Yang wouldn’t be a sheriff, if she didn’t have the eternal curiosity to solve problems and help people. She wants to be included, a part of something. All the good ones have the same driving motor buried in them.</p><p> </p><p>”I…” she begins, but stops to dig her teeth into her lips. ”Gambol found something in the forest that’s kinda freaking me out.”</p><p> </p><p>The eyebrows on the blonde’s face rise.</p><p> </p><p>”I wanted to tell you. Show you the photos I took,” Blake continues, pulling her phone onto the table. ”But I don’t want you to think you being a sheriff is the only reason I came.” There’s guilt throbbing in her chest, because she would want Yang to have a good time, and not be buried under worst case scenarios.</p><p> </p><p>Yang’s expression softens, and her hand shifts closer to Blake on the other side of the table, but without reaching its instinctive destination. A smirk suddenly appears, and she can’t help herself. ”It was the uniform that did it, right?”</p><p> </p><p>It’s hard not to snort at Yang. In another life, someone trying to joke with her – or should she call it flirting? - would unsettle her, perhaps even enrage. But everything Yang does, or says, is contradictory to what she’s used to. It’s as if her soul doesn’t have room for evil, greed, arrogance. She’s not insecure, but not overconfident either. The confidence is healthy, balanced. She doesn’t come off too strong, knowing exactly where she stands with Blake, even when Blake’s still trying to figure that out herself.</p><p> </p><p>Fiddling the phone in her palm, the stormy waves of fear start to settle inside her. The photos could disrupt the life around them for a while, but do they need to baffle the connection she and Yang have come to build?</p><p> </p><p>”Hey,” Yang murmurs, searching for Blake’s attention, waking her up from her stupor.</p><p> </p><p>Blake straightens her back, lets her foot relax under the table. She doesn’t flinch back when their legs touch – doesn’t dart her gaze away – but rather seeks comfort from the simple contact.</p><p> </p><p>”I want to see. I wanna help, Blake,” she adds, leaning forward, elbows resting on top of the table.</p><p> </p><p>Blake unlocks the phone and thumbs away for the gallery. She takes a quick overlook to ensure there’s nothing stupid photographed in the gallery, but seeing it’s mostly goofy photos about Gambol, she reaches the phone for Yang to take.</p><p> </p><p>It’s as if a breeze brushes over, because she feels her shoulders tingling from cold.</p><p> </p><p>Yang swipes left and right as she goes through the photos, the frown on her brows deepening as the seconds pass. Sometimes she moves her thumb and middle finger to enlargen a photo, to get a better look of the details. Minutes pass in pensive silence, before Yang lifts her gaze to meet Blake’s again. She muses for words before saying anything.</p><p> </p><p>”This is...a little bit unsettling.”</p><p> </p><p>”Just a little?” Blake huffs. ”Have you seen anything like this before?”</p><p> </p><p>”No.” Yang shakes her head. ”There’re some amateur hunters from time to time, hunting off season or pulling off stupid stunts, but I haven’t seen things like this happening before.”</p><p> </p><p>Blake swallows.</p><p> </p><p>”And to be honest this doesn’t… Seem something a hunter would do,” Yang continues, calm, but Blake can see the worry taking place in her eyes. ”This is…”</p><p> </p><p>”Sick?” Blake counters, leaning into the seat’s back.</p><p> </p><p>”Yeah,” Yang scoffs. She takes another look at a photo, grimacing. ”And a predator, like a wolf, couldn’t skin a moose this way. I don’t think those claw marks on the ribs are animal made either.”</p><p> </p><p>Blake lets the truth sink in. It’s just what she thought. Worse.</p><p> </p><p>”Can you show me this place? Tomorrow?” Yang returns the phone.</p><p> </p><p>In another circumstances, Blake would want to revel in the moment their fingers brush, but now is not really the right time.</p><p> </p><p>She nods. ”It’s about a mile to the east from our cottage.” It’s hard to find the words to say, when her mind’s filled with the images – the scent – again. ”There was an odd smell around it, too, but it didn’t look that rotten to me. The smell… I’m not going to forget that stench in a while.”</p><p> </p><p>The sheriff’s frown takes another turn lower. ”A stench? What was it like?”</p><p> </p><p>Blake’s expression falls cringey, as she can’t quite put her finger on it. ”I’m not sure? A bit acrid? It didn’t smell like a regular dead animal. I don’t think it should’ve been there, the smell.”</p><p> </p><p>Yang hums, and Blake drowns into thought as well. She’s seen quite a bit of senseless crimes when she lived and worked in the city. But how grim do things go regularly in a small town such as this? One would think the sheriff’s job would mostly include keeping things in order – chase the drunks, give fines for speeding, check on homes when a neighbor informs about domestic disputes. How many dead bodies haunt Yang at night?</p><p> </p><p>”So,” the woman in front of her ponders, tucking a strand of hair behind her ear, but it falls back almost immediately, ”You used to be a police. What do you think?”</p><p> </p><p>Blake grits her teeth. It’s not something she wants to even speculate, but she has a bad feeling.</p><p> </p><p>”I think unsettling is a good word for how I feel about this,” she says, leaning her jaw over her hand that rests on the tabletop. ”I think someone who does something like this is bound to do it again. It’s compulsive. They may not want to, but they <em>need</em> to do it again. Feel it again. Whatever it is they feel while doing it.” Her eyes dart to follow the scratch marks on the table’s surface, halting at a scribbled word that looks a lot like ’<em>hell</em>’.</p><p> </p><p>”You think it’s only a matter of time before they turn to people...?” The lilacs seem to turn into steel, cautious and protective.</p><p> </p><p>”That’s what I’m afraid of.”</p><p> </p><p>Blake decides to tuck the phone back into her pocket, swallowing as they both fear for what’s to come. It might not even be soon, or it would turn up to be just a one time thing, but Blake’s more used to seeing the worst happening.</p><p> </p><p>”I’m not very…” Yang starts, breaking the silence with nervous energy. ”I mean, things don’t usually happen here in a grandeur way. I’ve dealt with a few homicides, but most of them were… You know, a jealous ex-husband or drunk fights that turned out gun fights, and people died. Things are probably small here, compared to what you’ve seen.”</p><p> </p><p>”There’s nothing much to do anyway,” Blake sighs, but it’s not to undermine what Yang’s just told her. ”The one who did this is most likely going to walk away with a fine in their pocket, if you ever catch them. Maybe it’s better not to paint demons on the walls yet.”</p><p> </p><p>”Yeah… You might be right,” Yang drowns the last of her Strawberry Sunrise, shoulders relaxing just a bit. There’s still uneasiness tainting her mood, but it’s for the what ifs. Nothing has happened yet. ”I still want to see the body tomorrow. I think it’s better play this safe? Look for evidence before things escalate… <em>If</em> they do.”</p><p> </p><p>”I’ll take you there,” Blake says, flashes Yang a safe smile.</p><p> </p><p>Yang bites her lip, shifting on the seat. ”I think–I think you should tell your dad. He knows the town better than anyone, and the people who live here. He might think of something we’d never think of.”</p><p> </p><p>Blake knows it would make sense, even if she’d been hoping she wouldn’t need to pull her father into this. But Yang’s right. She observes Yang’s face, tries to find solace from her. The kind eyes and a soft smile ground her, and the whole situation doesn’t seem as horrid when she doesn’t need to carry it alone.</p><p> </p><p>”I could… I could call my dad to come take a look of it as well?” Blake suggests. ”It’s just that dad’s bad knee would slow us down quite a bit…”</p><p> </p><p>”I’m off work tomorrow,” Yang chuckles finally after a long while, and the sound calms Blake down even more. ”I have nowhere else to be. I have all day to hike for a dead moose.”</p><p> </p><p>Blake almost gives into a laugh, but she grins at the woman instead. ”You really don’t need to waste your day off for that.”</p><p> </p><p>”Nowhere else I’d rather be,” Yang grins right back at her. ”Seriously, I have nothing better to do. I don’t mind spending my day with you.”</p><p> </p><p>”And my dad, I mind you,” Blake laughs now, rolling her eyes. Why is it so easy to fall into this – whatever it is – with Yang? She falls into the pits of feeling so light. It has been a long time since talking and being with someone new felt like… This. She doesn’t even know what it is. She’s used to wanting to run away from people, and she thought she’d want to keep things that way. Blake never thought she’d actually want to run <em>towards</em> anyone.</p><p> </p><p>Yang doesn’t make her feel small.</p><p> </p><p>”Your dad’s nice. Although he can come off as a bit intimidating – but I’m used to it by now.”</p><p> </p><p>Blake smirks. She happens to glance at a clock above the bar counter, and sees the digital numbers showing it’s already past ten. She’d never thought staying for so long. Yang notices Blake taking note of the time, but she isn’t alarmed by it.</p><p> </p><p>”Is Gambol waiting for you?” she asks instead.</p><p> </p><p>”Nah. I think he’s snoring his paws off on the couch by now.”</p><p> </p><p>Yang smiles at that, tapping her fingers on the table. A comfortable silence falls around them, before Yang tilts her head with curiosity glimmering in her eyes.</p><p> </p><p>”Can I ask you something?”</p><p> </p><p>”Shoot,” Blake replies. She’s not afraid of Yang asking the wrong questions. Instead, she rather wants her to push. Blake couldn’t swear there were no limits, but at least she wants to try.</p><p> </p><p>Letting someone in, that is.</p><p> </p><p>”How’d you end up back here?”</p><p> </p><p>The question isn’t too bad, it’s not digging too deep, but it still opens doors. It’s not that Blake didn’t except something like it – it’s just that she’s not sure how to answer. The life she run from is complicated, and everything still is. Things are all over the place, especially inside her, even if the worst is already left behind.</p><p> </p><p>How does she explain a simple question when the answer isn’t?</p><p> </p><p>”I–,” Blake starts, still not sure what to say, but Yang makes a comment in between.</p><p> </p><p>”You don’t <em>need</em> to tell me, if you don’t want to. I’m just… I’d really like to get to know you. But you don’t need to tell me something you’re not ready tell a stranger about.”</p><p> </p><p>Blake’s a little taken aback by the consideration behind the words. Shoulders relaxing, Blake realizes she wants to tell Yang. Maybe not everything, not now, but someday.</p><p> </p><p>She lets her tongue brush over her lower lip.</p><p> </p><p>”I… I needed a fresh start,” she begins, and she can feel it through her bones, how things are lifting off from her shoulders, her heart. ”I went through something… That broke me. And my life fell apart,” she takes a shaky inhale, clenches her fist remembering the day <em>after</em>. Blake finds Yang watching her, seeing no judgement, but merely tenderness.</p><p> </p><p>”I wanted go as far away as possible,” she continues. ”My parents live here, so it seemed like a safe bet after I pulled myself back up from the aftermath.”</p><p> </p><p>Yang nods slowly, lets Blake go on if she decides to.</p><p> </p><p>”So I guess… I guess I was thinking I’d find myself again, returning back to the roots, or something like that.” Blake doesn’t know what else to say. She doesn’t want to open about the lowest point of her life in a boozer.</p><p> </p><p>She fidgets on her seat, contemplating on what she want Yang to know. ”I want to… I want to tell you,” Blake confesses. ”I don’t know why, but… I trust you.”</p><p> </p><p>Yang gives her a smile that’s so gentle that Blake almost wants to just… Lean into her, let someone embrace her again, and let someone catch her when she’s about to fall. She feels Yang’s calf stroke her own. It’s a light touch, but it’s a promise.</p><p> </p><p>”You can tell me, whenever you’re ready. I’m not going anywhere.”</p><p> </p><p>Yang’s gaze reminds Blake of sundown; when the cornflower blues meddle with pinks and the last rays of sunshine. She lets out the breath she had been holding, and reaches for Yang’s right hand with her own, touching the soft, burnt skin with her fingertips.</p><p> </p><p>”Thank you.”</p><p> </p><p>There’s a flicker of worry in the lavender, so Blake rounds her fingers around Yang’s palm, giving it a soft squeeze.</p><p> </p><p>”I think I should head home though,” she adds, but it’s not because she wants to leave. No, for once in her life, she actually wants to stay. ”While I can still drive.”</p><p> </p><p>”Yeah.”</p><p> </p><p>Yang doesn’t curl her fingers over Blake’s, but draws a circle on it the size of her thumb with her finger.</p><p> </p><p>Blake sinks into the feeling, fearing she doesn’t want to forget it.</p><p> </p><p>”Can I have your number?” she asks, the softness surprising her. Not a lot, but just a tiny bit. ”So I can give you my address. For tomorrow.”</p><p> </p><p>Yang’s gaze rises from their hands, and she pulls her own back, freeing them, feeling the same weight in the air. ”S-sure.”</p><p> </p><p>They exchange numbers, and exit the bar into the street. It’s dark, but the lights from the bar and the street lights hovering above them give just enough mood lightning as Yang walks Blake to her Jeep. She buries her hands into her jeans’ pockets, shivering from the cold breeze.</p><p> </p><p>It’s snowing.</p><p> </p><p>”I’ll see you tomorrow?”</p><p> </p><p>”What time?” Yang asks, taking a step closer to Blake and her car, stopping about two feet from her.</p><p> </p><p>”Any time?” Blake counters, crossing her arms over chest to feel a bit warmer in the chill. ”There’s not much daylight.”</p><p> </p><p>Yang nods. ”I’ll come around ten, then.”</p><p> </p><p>Blake smiles at her. She doesn’t really want to leave, and it’s overwhelming.</p><p> </p><p>”Just go,” Yang suddenly chuckles, starts walking backwards away from Blake. ”Good night, Blake.”</p><p> </p><p>The air’s not heavy. It’s just meaningful. As if it’s about to find its purpose.</p><p><br/>
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